Gemotions

He walked slowly across the overgrown lawn, each step a reluctant capitulation to the inevitable. The front door of the old house hung open, a gaping maw. It was a humid afternoon, and the air hung thick, almost viscous. A vague sense of unease settled in his stomach.

Inside, dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced through the grime-covered windows. He ran a hand along the peeling wallpaper in the hallway, the surface rough and dry beneath his fingertips. He could almost smell his mother’s cooking, the scent of cinnamon and apples that always filled the house on a Sunday.

A wave of emptiness washed over him, a hollow ache. He knew he should feel relief, that the burden of the past would soon be gone. But all he felt was this persistent, dull pain.